A Seven Year old Gift

"If you are good at something, never give it for free."

Sometime back, some apparently wise person told me, after seeing my paintings that I should make better use of them, participate in contests, hold exhibitions, sell, etc. He especially emphasized on the selling part. He also told me never to gift my paintings, as a few years later they would not value them enough and they would be just lying in some dusty corner.

I was kind of convinced with what he said. My paintings are dear to me, if I give it to someone, it really means a lot. My heart ached in remembrance of affection unreciprocated, and at the thought of my so dear paintings being wasted on people, who hadn't even talked to me for years now.

But yesterday, I went to one of my childhood Math's teacher's house. I was seeing him after four whole years! As I touched his feet a gust of old memories gushed through my head. He was the one who built me up and strengthened my concepts since a tender age, for five years, my dearest teacher. He used to scold me when I talked in the class or didn't do the homework, and had (and still has) a well-varnished cane too! And it all was a sweet memory now.  I was one from his very first batch of students and his family, consisting of his old parents too loved me a lot. It was always more than a modern day commercial student-tutor relation.

His old father had been bedridden for years now, he could hardly talk and move his hands. After the classes, at times, I would sit beside his bed and talk to him. One particular day is clearly etched to my mind when I was sitting beside him, he called his 24x7 nurse to give him the bottle of biscuits. He couldn't really move much, so he held the bottle horizontally, by pushing it with one of his legs against the wall and slowly, with all his effort, rotated the lid of the bottle with his feeble hand to fetch a biscuit for me. He told me to take it. It was and is the biscuit I hated the most on earth, Marie Gold. I never ever ate it at home or anywhere else, whatever be the condition. My mom had tried in vain an infinite number of times. But that day, I just took it and ate. In silence.

Seven years back, on one such day, I painted this Buddha's painting for him and gifted it to him. He instantly had someone called to have it framed. Since then, it hung on the wall in front of his bed.

Time passed. I changed states. We almost lost contact.

Years later, one day when I was in Delhi, Sir called me to give me this news. He was no more now. This gift still hangs there. The family still talks about it when visitors come and ask about it. My name surfaces in discussions, in the midst of people I don't know, while I am far away in some city they don't know. I am remembered by half-forgotten bonds that had ones sprung up. This remembrance is much more than any money I would get by selling my art to hang on a arty wall of a big house. My dear painting wouldn't be so at home.

I looked at it and felt good to see how I painted when I was small, I noticed many flaws here and there. But I forgive the ten years younger me and smile at my old little mistakes. :)

I removed it from the wall, brushed off the dust and placed it back in its place. My teacher's enthusiasm in helping me do it filled me with warmth. The best place it could ever be in.

I was no more sorry for the paintings I gifted to people. If not all, some of them have found more than what I could ever give them.

To my Maths Teacher,

Dear sir, I find this weird why it is so difficult to tell our's parents how grateful we are to them, may be because a thank you is too little a word. 'Thank you' is for the rest of the world. And I just feel overwhelmed when I even think about it, let alone express it. For my parents and teachers like you, 'thank you' is never ever enough and like I could never tell this to my parents, I could never tell this to you. I type this with a lump in my throat.